


Choler

by soldierwitch



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, in which i exorcize many of my issues with liz's arc in the aftermath of max's resurrection, this is the angry!Liz fic i wouldn't shut up about earlier in the year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:56:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldierwitch/pseuds/soldierwitch
Summary: In the aftermath of Max's resurrection everything should be fine. Everything should be better than fine. It should be perfect. And yet it's not. Nothing is okay, and Liz is slowly losing the ability to pretend the more she thinks about the six months she spent saving a man who didn't want to be saved.AKA the fic where Liz gets to be angry about Max's choices and how they affected her life.
Relationships: Max Evans/Liz Ortecho, mentions of Maria DeLuca/Michael Guerin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I was supposed to sit on this until I was done that way I didn't have another wip taking up space on Ao3 with no set timeline for completion, but I'm terrible at that so here we are. The biggest thank you goes to Mo who listened to me talk about this fic forever with no words on the page. I'm finally taking the plunge.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy! My hope is to have an update each month, but I'm horrible at writing promises so I won't be making any. Still though, wish me luck!

Liz traces the inked lines of the petunias clustered on Max’s rib cage. They’re plum in color, standing out like bruises on his skin.

Max grabs her wayward fingers and brings them to his mouth for a kiss before resting them on his heart. 

“Tickles,” he says, mumbling.

Propped up on her elbow, Liz smiles down at him. She likes laying with Max like this with him as the little spoon. 

In most areas of his life, Max is big. He fills every room even when he’s not trying to draw attention to himself. His is the kind of presence that looms large. But here in their bedroom, it’s more common for Max to want to be enveloped by her, to be swallowed up in her embrace. 

“What do they mean,” Liz asks. 

Max is not spontaneous but when he came home with his torso bandaged and wrapped in plastic, she’d been curious. All he’d said was that it was something he’d done for himself, and he wanted to wait to talk about it if that’s okay. 

Nearly two weeks have passed since then. 

“Comfort,” Max says, squeezing Liz’s hand.

“And,” Liz says, elongating the word to coax Max into elaborating.

“Anger,” he says softer than he’d spoken before. “Resentment.”

Liz sits with that information, taking a moment to parse through it. All the while Max’s thumb runs across the back of her hand, soothing as she processes. 

“Because of last year,” she says. It’s not a question.

“Because of a lot of things,” Max says. “But, yeah, last year was one of them. I wanted something to remind me of how far I’ve come.”

“In life.”

“And love,” he says. “Petunias capture its dichotomy. The thin line we walk in our relationships.”

Liz sighs and rests her chin on Max’s shoulder. “I didn’t hate you,” she says.

“No, you loved me so much it hurt,” he says. “I chose petunias because I feel the same.”

Kissing her fingers once more, Max gets up, careful not to pull the blankets off of her and heads to the bathroom.

Liz watches him go, eyes transfixed on the flowers that twine together on his side.


	2. Simmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get a two for one deal this time around because the first chapter was just the prologue.

_Rage is a quiet thing._

_You think that you’ve tamed it,_

_But it’s just lying in wait._

_Rage, is it in my veins?_

_Feel it in my face when I least expect it._

_Simmer - Hayley Williams_

Tick.

Liz fixes her hair in the mirror. 

Tock.

It's been a month since Max’s heart transplant. Still no signs of deterioration.

Tick.

She drums her nails against the dresser.

Tock.

Glancing to the side of the mirror, Liz watches Max’s reflection rest. 

Tick.

Pallor has drawn its paleness away from his skin like the sheet barely covering his waist. 

Tock.

Max looks like he never stepped foot in a grave. Like that’s his heart beating in his chest and not the one she gave him.

Tick.

But Liz remembers. She’ll always remember.

Tock.

Liz takes her eyes off Max and puts her lipstick on. A red matte.

Tick.

She fixes the mistake her unsteady hand made and peaks at Max again.

Tock.

His heart health journal is on the nightstand. She left a post-it note reminding him to take his weight, temperature, and pulse this morning.

Tick.

She’ll call to make sure he did it on her break.

Tock.

Capping her lipstick and tossing it back in her bag, Liz intends to leave, but the sleepy snuffle Max makes when he shifts brings her to the bedside.

Tick.

She watches him, losing time as she catalogues the minute changes she’s seen in his appearance since yesterday.

Liz’s shift at Crashdown is long and barely stimulating. She calls Max twice. The first time, it’s to jot down his readings in her own journal that she keeps tucked in her apron. They’re within range. She reminds him to eat something; she forgets to eat something herself. 

The second time, it’s to hear his voice. Their new hire Cheryl has dropped nearly every plate she’s touched. There’s a teen girl serenading her girlfriend in the far booth. Sweet despite being off-key. The soda machine is broken. She’s had to man the stove and oven because Luis is sick and his son Freddie is home taking care of him.

Liz misses the peace of the lab. It was organized. Quiet save for the music she’d play. Expectations were high but they were her expectations...and that of Michael and Isobel. She raced through her days, executing the dance of plates, orders, and customers required at the diner so that she could spend her off hours working to save Max.

Now, Liz isn’t racing anywhere. Table three wants Scully sweet potato fries, but there are no equations or hypotheses to keep her mind busy as she goes through the motions of making the order. Her only thought is of the rocket dogs that need to be ready for pick-up in twenty minutes.

At dinner, when Max asks after her, Liz says she’s fine. Her mind had strayed. Isobel had asked her a question. She asks it again. It goes in one ear and out the other barely registering despite Liz’s nod and hum of agreement. Something about cardio and miles run. 

Liz sips at her wine. When Michael makes Max and Isobel laugh with an offhand comment, Liz smiles. She didn’t hear what he said, but she smiles wider when he looks at her. It drops when he looks away.

In bed, Max sleeps on his side facing her. Liz counts his breaths. 

She can’t sleep. Rest has been an infrequent visitor. She blames the sleepless nights at the lab. Her body became used to functioning on little sleep. Now that her objective is complete, she’ll need to adjust. 

It’s only been 30 days. Max was dead for six months. Her mind is just catching up to her new normal. It’s fine.

 _He doesn’t need to know_ , Liz thinks. She watches Max take a breath in and take a breath out. _All I need is time_.

Tock.

The day repeats. The players change but there isn’t much difference. Liz barely sleeps.

“Tequila for your thoughts, love?”

Liz blinks, falling into Thursday. She’s in Maria’s truck bed, head tipped toward the stars. 

Accepting the shot glass, Liz throws the drink back, letting it burn down her throat. She winces and shakes her head. 

“It’s nothing,” she says.

Maria takes a drag from her joint and lays her bootless feet in Liz’s lap. “One of these days,” she begins. “I’m gonna expect a fresh answer to my question.”

Liz shrugs. “There’s nothing to tell,” she says. She runs her tongue over her teeth, chasing the taste of tequila, hoping for a buzz.

“But there’s a lot on your mind,” Maria counters.

Liz doesn’t say anything just runs a finger up the bottom of Maria’s foot. Maria snatches her feet back with a gasp that blooms into a giggle. Liz’s lips quirk up.

“I’m fine, Maria.” 

Fine is a good placeholder for how she feels. There’s no reason for things not to be fine, so Liz is fine.

“So you say,” Maria says, poking Liz in the hip with her big toe. “But I know better.”

“How’s Mimi,” Liz asks, deflecting.

Maria blows a curl out of her face. “Fine,” she says blandly. 

Liz wonders if that’s how she sounds when she says the word. Flat and distant. 

“How’s Max?”

She looks away.

“That good, huh?”

“He’s always good,” Liz whispers.

It’s scary how well he’s adjusted to resurrection. They had to drag him kicking and screaming back to the land of the living, but he acts as if he didn’t pull his own plug. His smile is still the same, and he looks at her like they never lost each other. Liz doesn’t know what to do with his smiles or his looks. How do you die and not be changed by it?

“Not what I meant.”

How Maria took her meaning is not what Liz meant either, but she doesn’t correct her best friend. Her thoughts are too maudlin to share, and she doubts she’d be able to articulate what she’s feeling anyway. 

There's a loud whooshing sound in her mind whenever she gets too close to the memories of those six months without Max. She’d stared at the long road ahead of her, a vast future with endless possibilities waiting for her to take a step toward them, and she’d chosen to stay put in a small town for the _chance_ of saving a man. 

“I accept it when you say you’re fine,” Liz says, turning back to Maria.

“You do,” Maria nods. “But you still haven’t learned that you shouldn’t. Not all the time.”

Liz takes Maria’s hand and entwines their fingers.

“I don’t mean to leave you out in the ocean,” Liz says, thinking of the ways she’s shortchanged Maria in the past and how she probably will again. She’s a woman with tunnel vision. She sees a problem, she fixes it, and by the time she remembers to check her periphery the world has changed and so has the people in it.

“Neither do I, Liz,” Maria says, squeezing her hand before letting it go. “That’s our problem. We’re two women without a life raft waving at each other as we drown.”

Liz looks up at the stars and considers her words. Maria is harder than she was 10 years ago. Liz remembers her as a grieving kid. She’s the girl she put in her rear view. A ghost from a past life. She’s only gotten started knowing Maria as a woman. 

The Maria she’s friends with now curses like a cowpoke, can drink a man twice her size under the table, and hustles when she has to and even when she doesn’t. But she still loves easier than she should and says less than she should.

“Michael’s not your life raft?”

Maria sighs and takes another drag from her joint. She offers it to Liz, but she shakes her head, so Maria stamps it out and flicks it over the side of her truck. 

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve been out here so long on my own. I’ve never really slowed down to consider anyone else but my mom. Not even Chad. I thought about it with him, but he wasn’t worth the thought. With Michael, I don’t know if it’s complicated or if I’m complicating it. I still haven’t let go of his lies.”

“He was going to tell you, Maria,” Liz says, despite knowing it’s a worthless consolation. “The day you found out, he was going to tell you.”

“I know,” she says. “But knowing that doesn’t change how it felt having the rug snatched from under me. The whole world shifted, Liz. I thought I knew enough about him, had been shown enough about him, to know what he was capable of.”

Liz stiffens at Maria’s words. _Too close_ , she thinks, trying to push out intruding thoughts. But she is in the truck bed with Maria and at her sister’s grave site watching the rose fall from her hand. She’s watching a car burn in Max’s eyes. Liz is in three places at once, and she can barely draw a breath.

“I thought I had all the cards,” Maria continues. “I thought I knew the play. I thought I was safe. Then Rosa appeared, and she told me I didn’t know anything. Not a damn thing. And my heart broke.”

Liz thinks of Rosa in the desert wrapped in a blanket. The joy on her face that fell, the devastation that ran through her being until it howled so loud the cave walls shook. She grabs the tequila bottle, pours them both a shot, and drinks before Maria can even bring hers to her lips.

“I’m sorry,” Liz says like condolences given at a funeral. She wants to repeat it over and over again to herself, to Maria. To the death of innocence. The death of the world. The death of--

Maria puts her hand over Liz’s and her mind goes quiet. She watches as Maria drinks her shot and then pushes the tequila bottle further up the truck bed, out of her reach.

They sit in silence. Maria’s hand in hers.

After some time, Maria asks, “Is Max your life raft?”

“Truth,” Liz asks, her head lulling toward Maria’s until it rests against hers. She’s starting to get sleepy.

“Always.”

“No,” she admits. 

“Why?”

“I feel like something’s missing,” Liz says, rubbing at her eyes. “Something’s gone.”

“Your independence,” Maria asks.

Liz shakes her head no. Her eyes slip close.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said, Max is good,” Maria says. “But what about you, Liz? Are you good?”

Liz jerks back. It’s dark. Max is sleeping, his hand is reaching for hers. Liz curls her fingers into the covers and starts counting his breaths.

\---

“Marisa,” Liz says, picking through the apples on the cart, half paying attention to the woman in near hysterics on the phone. She sees four she likes and two that will do. “You can handle the morning rush, I have faith in you.”

Liz switches her phone to her other shoulder as she puts the apples in a plastic bag and twists it around to tie. She rolls her eyes at Marisa’s response.

“Well, besides faith,” she says, exasperated. “I trained you myself, I know what you’re capable of. You said you wanted more responsibility, this is more. What are you afraid of?”

Liz resists the urge to hang up on Marisa. It’s supposed to be her morning off. She took it at Rosa’s urging. Grocery shopping isn’t the most thrilling of activities to be doing, but the house is low on supplies, and she thought the quiet bustle of the farmer’s market would help her restlessness. Then Marisa called.

“No,” Liz says, rejoining the conversation. “No, I don’t think imposter syndrome applies to assistant managers.”

“Look, Marisa,” Liz begins. She’s not paying attention to her surroundings when she turns and bumps into someone. They steady her by grabbing her elbow. Liz looks up to give the stranger a smile and a whispered apology, but she drops her apples instead. 

“Marisa, I have to go,” she says. “I’m hallucinating.”

The squawk of “What?!” coming from Liz’s phone is cut off abruptly by her ending the call.

Diego laughs, as perfect as she remembers. 

“That’s one way to greet the ex you ghosted.”

Inhale.

Salt pours into a shaker like sand in an hourglass. 

_I’m here for your mind, Elizabeth, not your heart._

“Liz.”

She tightens the top to the shaker and moves onto the next one.

Exhale.

_We’re making progress, but it’s slow. We’d move quicker with you on board._

“Liz.”

She clicks the salt container closed, moves on to stuffing napkins into their holders.

Inhale.

_Don’t you want to work--_

“Yo, Earth to Liz.”

Liz’s eyelashes flutter as a hand passes back and forth before her eyes.

“What are you doing,” she asks, turning to her sister.

Rosa gives her a look and drops her hand. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Liz looks around. Most of the blinds have been lowered in the diner but not all of them. The window they’re standing in front of sees clearly out to the empty street. She pulls the blind down.

“It looks like you’re breaking the rules,” Liz says. She’s irritated, but she’s not sure if her annoyance stems from being pulled from her thoughts or Rosa’s nonchalance at the risk of being in the diner.

“We’re closed,” Rosa says, unimpressed. “No one’s here, but you, me, and Papi who fell asleep at the desk again.”

Rosa holds up a hand before Liz can speak. “Yes, I put him to bed.”

“You should be in bed, too,” Liz says, attempting to go back to her task.

Rolling her eyes, Rosa takes the box of napkins and starts filling the holders that need more, leaving Liz with nothing to do but listen. 

“I know it’s been ten years,” Rosa says. “And time has fucked up our older sister-younger sister thing, but I’m gonna keep reminding you until you get it, I’m the older one.”

Rosa slams the last stack of napkins home and looks back at Liz.

“It’s not your job to take care of me,” she says, firmly. “It’s my job to take care of you.”

Liz doesn’t remind Rosa that she’s a month into her sobriety. Or that her refusal to let Max help her manage her powers sets Liz on edge. The lights flicker when she’s upset, bulbs burn until they pop when she’s angry. Yesterday, she short-circuited the kitchen radio when she got startled.

Instead Liz says, “I took the morning off.”

“And worked a 12 hour shift,” Rosa says, raising an eyebrow.

Liz suspects that if she were still 17, she’d be sufficiently cowed by Rosa’s no nonsense tone. Her back would be against the ropes, and she’d admit defeat, allowing Rosa to lovingly steer her in the direction she thinks is best for her. 

But Liz isn’t 17 anymore. At 29, she’s a woman watching a teenager try to mother her in combat boots and smudged eyeliner. 

There’s a part of Liz that aches to be the child she was with Rosa. She’d had unmarred hope then even with her absentee mother and drug addict sister. Now it feels like Rosa wants her to play a role she no longer fits. 

What Rosa hasn’t realized in the seven months since Max brought her back is that that old script got ripped apart by time. Her baby sister is gone. She’s not coming back.

“10 hours,” Liz corrects.

“12,” Rosa repeats, undeterred. “You were up early balancing the books before you left for the market and put Marisa in charge.”

“You’re keeping tabs on me now,” Liz asks. Now it’s her turn to be unimpressed.

Rosa leans against the table and crosses her legs at the ankle before crossing her arms. Even in profile she looks unapologetic. Liz knows there are many things her sister is sorry for, but she’s always been jealous of the way Rosa’s attitude can cool into indifference. It never lasts long but it's a talent Liz wishes she had. 

“You’re not the only one who notices things,” Rosa says after a moment. She turns her head to Liz, pins her with a look. “Who was the fancy looking guapo that had your attention for nearly an hour before you sent him on?”

Everything freezes in Liz like the broken clock on the wall.

“You spoke to him in the alley,” Rosa continues. “Did you forget my window faces that way?”

Liz almost asks her what she heard but then she remembers Rosa’s window is jammed. Has been for years. Papi hasn’t gotten around to fixing it, and Rosa hasn’t cared to try herself. Part of her relaxes.

“His name is Diego,” Liz says.

Rosa waits for her to continue, but Liz only gives her, “He was just passing through,” which is not at all true, but it’s what Liz is willing to offer. 

With a snort, Rosa unfolds her arms and pushes off the table. 

Liz feels her absence acutely despite her only being feet away instead of inches. 

Rosa is staring at the alien mural she spray painted on the wall. Last week she’d made an addition. The silhouette of a human getting beamed up into the spaceship. The customers loved it, but Liz found it eerie. The message was clear. Anyone can be taken. Anyone can be stolen from their home.

“I’m a ghost,” Rosa says, once Liz comes to stand next to her. “I slip around town ducking into old haunts and shadowing people I used to know. Papi treats me like Lazarus raised from the dead, and you keep pushing me to work with Max, your framing ass cop boyfriend.”

Liz swallows her guilt.

“You need help,” she says. “And Max--”

“Wants to make amends,” Rosa says. “I know.”

Rosa looks lost, displaced, and unsure of what to do about it. Liz bites her lip and tries to find one piece of her conversation with Diego that she’s willing to share. He wanted her to go with him, but she didn’t. That’s the beginning and end of the conversation. 

If she were to talk about the middle, Liz would have to explain that walking out had become easy for her. Rosa sees their mother in her own addiction, but Liz sees her in her own absence. Diego opened a door in her. Even though he’s gone, she can still hear his voice whispering in her ear about all the good she could do if she packed her bags and left everything behind like she’s done so many times before.

 _You have a gift_ , he said in a warm timbre. _You see what others don’t. I’d hate to see that go to waste in this sad little town._

It’s like he’s standing with them. His arms wrapped around her waist, his cheek pressed against her cheek. Liz swears she can smell the mint of his breath. 

“What did Diego want?”

“The future,” Liz says, absentmindedly. She’s caught in the memory of him. 

She’d forgotten what had attracted her to Diego. How simple he made things. He was quick to listen, and he could cut through bullshit faster than anyone she knew. Diego also looked like he walked straight out of the pages of a fashion magazine. 

Liz had slipped and called him, “Diablo,” her old nickname for him. He could get darn near anything with his smile. She wasn’t immune, but her time with Diego had given her the ability to see when he was using his charm to sway her.

His eyes had sparked at the name. 

“Your future?”

Liz hums a yes and takes off her apron, sliding the journal out of its pocket.

There had been no answering pull in her belly, but she became aware of how they looked standing in the alleyway, leaning against his car. 

“What did you say?”

“No,” Liz says, heading to the back to grab her coat. Her fingers tingle with the memory of his hand gripping hers. _You wanted to change the world_.

“What does your future have to do with him?”

“Nothing,” Liz says and thinks, _Not anymore_. 

Liz slips her arms into her jacket and pulls her hair from beneath its collar.

Rosa calls her name like she’s telling her to look at her, so Liz does. She’s not sure what Rosa sees, but the disappointment in her eyes is enough for Liz to look away. 

“I told Max I’d stop by,” Liz says, fingering the keys in her pocket. “Can you finish closing up?”

“Yeah,” Rosa says, flat. “Are you coming home tonight?”

Liz shakes her head. “I haven’t been sleeping well. I’d just keep you and Papi up.”

She thought she’d leave Max’s bed once she brought him back, but her body had grown accustomed to his sheets. His pillows smelled like him. Sleeping in her own bed made her miss Max, and when she did manage to sleep she’d wake up searching for him only to realize he’s not there. It was easier being at his place where all she had to do was open her eyes or roll over, and he’d be by her side.

“And you’re not keeping Max up?”

“No,” Liz says, shaking her head again. “He sleeps like the de…,” she clears her throat and rephrases. “He’s not a light sleeper.”

“Guess that’s something we have in common,” Rosa says, grabbing an apron off the hook. She leaves with a parting shot. “But I bet you at least try to tell him the truth.”

Liz lays her hands flat on the cutting table and exhales. Her fingers want to curl into her palms, but she doesn’t let them. She looks at the journal by her palm.

_What happened to being great?_

Ding.

Ding. Ding.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Ding.

Ding. Ding.

Ding.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

“What,” Liz snarls, bursting through the kitchen door without her usual composure. Her hair is slapped into a messy bun on her head. She looks like she could use a strong cup of coffee.

Liz trains her glare on Michael whose hand is hovering over the service bell. The smile he gives her is slow to rise on his face, but it’s smug. There’s a gleam in his eyes, the one he gets when he’s raised a hackle or two on someone.

“Morning, Liz,” he says. “Fancy seeing you here before hours.”

“Cut the crap, Michael,” she says, already not in the mood. It’s too early for his shit, and she didn’t sleep at all last night. Max had been at Isobel’s for “twin time.” Liz had slept in his bed, but it just reminded her of when he was gone and she’d stare up at the ceiling theorizing on how to bring him back.

Without Max in the bed beside her, Liz played her conversation with Diego like a song on repeat in her head. She kept hearing herself say, “No,” like that word alone could hold the door closed to the life he’d painted for her. 

“Fine,” Michael says, resting his chin in his hand. An imperfect picture of nonchalance. “A bird told me your ex paid you a visit.”

“This bird have a name,” Liz asks. She’s unnerved, but she refuses to show it. 

“If you want your business to stay in house,” Michael starts. “Don’t hire Cheryl Sanders as a waitress. She sings like a canary two drinks in at the Pony and prides herself on knowing everything about everybody.”

Liz reaches up and grips the towel on her shoulder. She had to let Cheryl go a few days ago. Crashdown was short staff now but it was better than having to spend money they didn’t have on dishware. Not to mention, Cheryl had nearly set the kitchen on fire last week when she left a stack of napkins on the hot stove. Liz had pegged her for a liability, she hadn’t realized the extent to that truth.

“What did she say?”

Michael starts fiddling with the pepper shaker, balancing it on the bottom curve of its container. 

“A man with a face like sin,” he begins. “Offered you a job in the back alley of Crashdown after you spent an hour talking to him.”

Liz rolls her eyes. “Of course she made it sound dirty.”

Michael rights the pepper shaker and fixes his gaze on Liz.

“Isn’t it,” he asks. “Max has been stable for what? A month? And Diego Ortiz, the head of BioTech Corporation, rolls into town offering you a job.”

Liz can hear the accusation in Michael’s tone as if he’s already drawn a conclusion from his own statement and is now waiting on her to fill in the blanks. It feels like they’re back at square one with each other, the only difference being that he’s chosen to talk with her first before threatening her with a butcher knife.

There’s a part of Liz that realizes Michael is being courteous. He’s choosing his words carefully. Alluding to betrayal without actually saying it as if he’s leaving her an opening to prove him wrong. But there’s a stronger part--one that’s causing heat to rise in Liz’s belly--that doesn’t give a damn. 

Michael isn’t the one going with Max to his weekly check-ups with Kyle. He’s not taking meticulous notes so that he can compare his observations against Max’s to provide Kyle with as complete a picture of Max’s recovery that he can. 

He made a pacemaker; he didn’t regrow a heart.

Through gritted teeth, Liz says, “Ask the question you really want to ask.”

Michael drops all pretense and matches his glare to Liz’s. 

“Did you sell us out?”

Liz expected that. She even asked for it, but the question still feels like a gut punch. 

“Yes,” she says, trying for sarcasm but landing somewhere near angry. “I told a man I haven’t seen or spoken to in over a year that aliens exist.”

Michael shakes his head. 

“You wouldn’t need to tell him what we are,” he says. “Did you tell him about your research?”

He looks pointedly at the journal in Liz’s apron. “All he’d need is a page or two out of that to be curious.”

There’s a laugh threatening to bubble up in Liz, but nothing is funny. Nothing at all.

She yanks the journal out of her apron and places it on the counter with such force that it sounds like a smack.

“Michael, this is a _heart health journal_.”

Liz flips to the first page. It’s dated for the day after Max’s surgery. The page details his activity with timestamps for when he woke up, what he ate, his pain level, how long he was able to stay up, when he rested and for how long he slept. 

She flips to the next page. There are notations of her concern about the transplant taking. She does discuss the experimental surgery, but there’s no mention of Rosa as a makeshift defibrillator or Max’s regenerative powers.

On the third page, Liz has drawn an anatomically correct heart and an approximation of the pacemaker Michael made. Underneath the drawings is a bulleted list of questions she had for Kyle. 

Liz had been careful with her words, referring to Max’s “case,” “medical history,” and “genetic predisposition” without expanding on what she means by those phrases. It looked normal like she’s keeping track of his progress like anyone would when someone they love has had a heart transplant.

When she feels Michael has read enough, Liz takes her journal back and returns it to her apron pocket.

“How stupid do you think I am,” she asks, once Michael looks at her again. “Did you really think that I’d be carrying around a journal full of my research notes at Crashdown, where I work?”

Michael huffs and runs a hand over the bridge of his nose. 

“Look,” he says. “Liz, I’m working on my trust issues. I am. Ask DeLuca. But you’ve gotta understand. We’ve carried this secret for over twenty years. It’s been what? A year and a half for you?”

He doesn’t wait for Liz to answer, he just continues and stands. “So you’ll excuse me, if I don’t give you the benefit of the doubt after hearing Cheryl cluck about your senator’s son, bio-engineer ex-fiancé who offered you a job in the regenerative wing of his biotech company.”

“From what I know about human men,” Michael says. “They don’t hop on jets for nothing, and they don’t leave without taking something with them.”

“He took disappointment with him,” Liz says. “Because I told him no.”

“Why was he here in the first place,” he asks, spreading his arms wide. “Roswell isn’t exactly winning top prize on TripAdvisor.”

Something in Liz is going to snap. She can feel it growing tauter the more Michael pokes and prods at her, looking for an answer that will prove his suspicions right. That she’s not trustworthy. No one is. That he’s right to see lies in the truth and not believe anything she says.

If she had a firm grasp on patience, Liz thinks she could end this confrontation calmly. Remind Michael that she has had every opportunity to give them up. They thought they killed her sister. They framed her for manslaughter. They burned her body to cover up their crime. She could have left them to the mercy of whatever hellish force she called down on them. But she didn’t.

Liz, however, doesn’t have patience. She hasn’t slept. She didn’t see Max this morning. He hasn’t called her yet. And there is an implication in Michael’s interrogation that’s boiling over all of the calm she’s managed to cobble together while waiting for her phone to ring. 

“I am the best in my field,” Liz says, voice rising. “You don’t do the work that Diego wants to do without putting me on the team. He was here because of _me_ . Because of the same theories that saved Max’s life. _My_ theories; _my_ work. He wasn’t here because of you, or Max, or Isobel. Everything is not about you three.”

Michael falls silent.

Liz continues. “It’s not just your secret anymore,” she says, struggling to get her emotions under control. “It’s mine, too.”

The door chimes as someone enters.

Liz drags her attention away from Michael. 

“Bienvenidos,” she greets. “How can I...help...you...”

Max smiles. He’s backlit by the sun. Eyes warm. He’s carrying two coffees in his hand, there’s a messenger bag slapping against his hip as he makes his way over to her. 

“Hey, Liz,” he says, voice morning rough. He nods at Michael and places the coffees down so he can lean over and kiss her.

Liz lets him kiss her cheek.

She says, “Hi,” and hides behind a smile. 

Michael doesn’t say anything, and Max goes on to tell them about his night with Isobel.

Liz sips at her coffee and tries not to choke on everything inside her that’s fighting to get out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Feedback is appreciated.


End file.
